


this is really beyond anything

by maryabolkonskaya



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy
Genre: Affairs, Canon Era, Elopements, F/F, Nonbinary Character, Nonbinary Natasha Rostova, in 19th century russia we get gay, that's it that's the fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-22
Updated: 2016-12-22
Packaged: 2018-09-09 14:41:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8894581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maryabolkonskaya/pseuds/maryabolkonskaya
Summary: Anatole Kuragin may very well be one of Russia's finest men, but his sister, Hélène, has escapades and affairs of her own.(gifted to tumblr user smolelves!!)





	

**Author's Note:**

> have a lovely holiday season!!!

Hélène Kuragina is only talking to this Natasha girl because her brother asked her to. Not because she's beautiful, or all the moons of Jupiter sparkle in her eyes, or because she's irresistibly charming and sweet; no, because Anatole asked her to.

Hélène is not going to get involved.

"Natasha," Hélène purrs as she approaches the girl's booth at the opera. "I've heard so much about you. You're a friend of my husband, oui?"

Natasha stares at Hélène. "Who are you?" She thinks for a moment before gasping. "Oh! You're Pierre's wife, aren't you?" Natasha squeezes her eyes shut, trying to think of her name, and pops them open with a smile. "Hélène!"

"That would be me, dear," Hélène says. "My brother, Anatole, is sitting down there with his friend, Dolokhov. See?" Hélène points to Anatole, his blonde hair shining in the stage lights. Dolokhov is leaning up against him, slightly drunk, and their hands are entwined on Dolokhov's lap.

Natasha smiles. "He's handsome."

"Isn't he?" Hélène says, laughing, ignoring the stake slowly driving itself through her heart. "He's single, too, and I know he admires beautiful, young girls like yourself."

Natasha blushes and, for some odd reason, Hélène aspires to make Natasha blush as often as she can. "Thank you, Hélène. Sadly, I'm engaged."

"Oh, what a shame, dear. I know he'd love to get a hand on you, though," Hélène says, voice dropping so low it's become nearly seductive. It produces the desired effect on Natasha, however, and she blushes again. "Mind if I join you?" Hélène asks. "Boys are never much company. They all want to blabber about the war, is all."

"Oh! Of course," Natasha says, patting the seat beside her. "I understand. Andrey writes to me so often, but rarely anything of interest. It's military techniques and maneuvers; stuff I think might be more fit for Pierre, perhaps?"

Hélène snorts. "Pierre drinks too much and reads all day about who knows what; America's founding fathers, even - Jefferson, Hamilton, Washington; who knows? He'd love whatever Andrey has to say about the war."

Natasha giggles and Hélène thinks if she would just turn her head the right way, the glittering lights might shine in her hair, illuminating it like a solar system.

They sit for a moment, admiring the stage, and before long the opera is over and Hélène knows Anatole will be up in the booth soon, staking his claim on Natasha. She wishes he would let her keep Natasha for herself - there are always plenty of other sweet, young things Anatole could swoon for himself - but she already knows the answer would be a hard no. They're not entirely stupid, the Kuragin siblings, and they know better than to start an affair with the same gender. Anatole nearly let Dolokhov get the better of him, but Hélène put a stop to that quickly. She needs to put a stop to Natasha, too, but that's not at the top of her list of priorities right now.

"Hélène!" calls a sweet, smooth voice from the door to the booth, "How did you enjoy the opera?" Anatole wraps an arm around her waist and plants a chaste kiss to her neck. "Is that Natasha?" he asks, gesturing vaguely to Natasha who is standing in the corner talking to a young girl; Sonya, maybe, Natasha's cousin.

"Yes," Hélène says. "She's very charming, you know." She dips into her wistful, dreamy voice. "I'd rather like to have her for myself-"

"You know what my answer is," Anatole says. "No."

"But," Hélène protests, weakly, only to be interrupted by Anatole's chiding.

"She's a _she_ ," Anatole says. "If _I_ can't have Dolokhov, _you_ can't have Natasha."

"If I let you have Dolokhov would you let me have Natasha?" Hélène asks, hopeful.

"No. I'm disappointed in you, sister." Anatole separates himself from Hélène and makes her face him. "You know the risks. Getting caught with a man is-"

"Is one thing, but a woman is another," Hélène says in a monotone voice. "I know, I know."

"And I know it's hard," Anatole says in a gentler voice, "I know." He trails off, unsure where to go with his sentence, but Hélène gets the message nonetheless. Natasha looks up from her conversation with Sonya and makes eye contact with the Kuragin siblings, smiling widely. Anatole waves and whispers to Hélène, "Wish me luck, sweet sister," before walking over to Natasha in his swaggering manner.

Hélène watches Anatole seduce Natasha as the stake rips her heart in half, pieces falling directly into the young girl's palms.

\- - -

"What do you mean, ask Natasha to the ball?" Hélène asks Anatole, arms waving confusedly. "You know-"

"How you feel, yes, I know," Anatole says, "but she adores you and wouldn't ever pass up a chance to go to a lovely ball in Moscow." He pouts. "Please, Hélène?"

Hélène thinks for a moment, weighing if seeing Natasha again is worth making her brother happy, then decides.

"Fine. What's her address?"

\- - -

"Now, Sonya," Hélène says as she enters the residence of the young girls, "you _must_ show me to Natasha's room. Be a dear, won't you?" Hélène loops their arms together and looks around the house.

"Oh," Sonya says, quietly, "of course." They turn into a long hallway. "She might be dressing, but-"

"But that's quite alright!" Hélène says, laughing. "There's nothing she has that I don't, eh?"

Sonya blushes, pointing at one of the doors. "This is her room. Natasha-"

The door opens and Natasha peeks out. She's in a dressing shift, feet bare, and her hair is secured behind her head in a messy knot. "Hélène," she says, breathless. Her face slowly turns red as a rose as she remembers what dress she's in. "I'm-"

"Delighted to see me, eh?" Hélène says, laughing. "May I come in? Thank you, Sonya," Hélène says as Sonya runs off, embarrassed.

Natasha opens the door further and allows Hélène to slip inside before shutting the door. "I apologize for the mess; I was trying on new dresses and lost myself in the fabric and lace," Natasha says shyly.

"It's quite alright, dearie. You're quite an enchantress, you know? Such a beautiful thing," Hélène purrs. "You could snag any man you wanted, eh?" She winks, and Natasha blushes again. Or, she's still blushing from earlier. Natasha always seems to be blushing, Hélène notices, as she also did at the opera. "These dresses suit you," Hélène says, walking around the room, looking at the dresses strewn across chairs, lounges, and even Natasha's bed. "Ooh! This one-" Hélène picks one up, "-metallic gauze; straight from Paris I'd say, eh? Anything suits you," Hélène says admiringly, brushing a hand across Natasha's cheeks, "my dear, dear charmer."

She lays the dress down and Natasha gestures towards another one; this one light pink, lace adorning the collar and sleeves. "How about this one, Hélène?"

"It's as pink as your cheeks; oh, how you blush, my pretty," Hélène says happily. "Charmanté, charmanté; charming, dear."

She picks up the dress and Natasha points towards the mirror hung on the wall. She's about to slip into the dress when Hélène simply holds it in front of her body so she can admire herself in the mirror.

"Now," Hélène says, whisking the dress away and picking up another; long sleeves and a full, blue skirt, "if you have a dress, you must wear it out, oui? How can you live in Moscow and not go anywhere?"

Natasha stutters. "I don't suppose Andrey would want me going out-"

"Oh, to hell with what men think; women are far more powerful, don't you know?" Hélène says, grinning. "So what? You love somebody, but that's so reason to shut yourself in; even if you're engaged you _must_ wear your dress out somewhere."

"I suppose," Natasha says, picking up another dress; dark purple, seductive almost in tone, "that Andrey would want me to have fun."

"Aah," Hélène says, "that's the spirit, girl. A women with a dress is a mighty and powerful thing, of course. You can have all the fun you want."

"I suppose if you say it's alright, considering you're married yourself, then it must be alright," Natasha says. "I just don't have any occasion to wear these dresses," she sighs.

Hélène makes an _ah-ha!_ noise and claps her hands excitedly. "There's a ball at our house tonight; you must come, my dear." Hélène leans in close to Natasha's face - their lips are mere inches apart - and practically moans, "you will be the prettiest there." Hélène pulls away, heart pounding as fast as Natasha's, she imagines, and the young girl's stunned expression says everything. "You will come?"

Natasha gulps. "I will come."

\- - -

The ball is going swimmingly, Hélène observes, and now she's watching Anatole while he waits for Natasha. She sometimes forgets how young he is, but watching him wipe his sweaty palms on his pants; repeat flirtations under his breath; and anxiously shoot his head up when he hears the door open, she's reminded that they're all only children. It's a little scary, but she loses her train of thought as soon as Natasha walks in. Her shimmering, white dress compliments her matching headdress, and she's illuminated under the chandeliers and mirrors of the Kuragin household like a comet. Hélène thinks she might faint.

Anatole immediately hooks their arms together and leads Natasha towards the ballroom, winking at Hélène as he passes. Hélène smiles and waves when Natasha sees her; Natasha blushes as if she's remembering their antics earlier in the day. Hélène swears she can still feel the hot puffs of Natasha's breath on her face, or the glittering smile Natasha wore when she was sampling the dresses.

Hélène follows them into the ballroom a couple of minutes later on Dolokhov's arm and watches the couple from a distance. It's bittersweet, watching them dance cheek to cheek; on one hand, she's delighted to see her brother happy; on the other hand, she's managed to gather feelings for the young girl and can hardly stand to see her with someone else. It's unlikely, however, that Natasha is attracted to women; she's rather taken with Andrey, Hélène notices.

The rest of the night passes in a blur; Anatole, however, does greet Hélène later that night with a wide, shining smile, though if it's from kissing Natasha or drinking a tad too much, she can't tell.

\- - -

"Elopement?" Hélène screeches, the sound echoing off of the ceiling of Anatole's bedroom. "You want to elope after, what, three days?" She throws her hands in the air and groans, exasperated, falling back on his bed.

Anatole grimaces from beside her. "Would it help if I told you it was true love?"

"That would not help," Hélène explains, "because 'true love' does not happen after three days. You'd be better off trying to convince me that Pierre has ever had sex with anyone besides his own fist."

"I did not need that mental image," Anatole groans, leaning back on the bed and covering his eyes with his hand.

"You deserve it," Hélène snaps, voice cracking slightly at the end. A rogue tear slips down her cheek and she wipes at her eyes furiously, begging God to not let Anatole notice.

Anatole sits up and makes her look at him, his face softening. "Hélène," he says, smiling gently, "I'm not going to leave you forever. I can write you-"

"It's not that," she says, barely loud enough to be audible, her voice a mere squeak in the rolling steam engine that is practically Anatole himself. He continues on rambling, not even paying any mind to Hélène as she slips out of the room, unnoticed. Her stocking-clad feet slide on the tile floors on the way to her bedroom, and she decides she'll give Anatole thirty minutes to realize she's gone.

Forty-five minutes later, a small slip of paper slides under her door, folded into the shape of a rose.

 

_Hélène,_

_I'm sorry if I upset you._

_Anatole_

 

He's not sorry, Hélène knows; not even remotely sorry for stealing Natasha away from Hélène, even when he knew that Hélène developed feelings for her - actual feelings, not just sexual - before he did.

She writes Anatole a response and slips it under his door, knocking once before retreating.

 

_Anatole,_

_You're not sorry. You forget that I have feelings, too - romantic feelings - and you'll keep forgetting every time you look in Natasha's eyes, or you look at her smile, or you think of her at all.  
You forget that I exist, but it's fine._

_Hélène_

\- - -

The elopement goes as well as Hélène expected; which means, an absolute failure. It was not that Balaga was drunk as fuck, it was not that Anatole nearly forgot the fur cloak, it was not Dolokhov - it's never Dolokhov, he's the smart one - it was the blessing that is Sonya Rostova. Hélène, from sneaking around town as she usually does, garnered that Sonya read the sappy letters from Anatole - Dolokhov, really - to Natasha and basically ratted her out to their godmother, Marya. Hélène is thankful that Sonya found out because had she not, Anatole and Natasha would have consummated their relationship plenty enough by now; enough times for Natasha to never remember Hélène at all, Hélène thinks.

Anatole is off in Petersburg now; why? Hélène doesn't know and doesn't even care to know; he probably deserves it, whatever the reason. A knock at the door of the Kuragin house startles her out of her thoughts and she frowns, wondering who could be here at this time of day. It's past noon, and most anyone Hélène knows would write before showing up at their door unexpectedly. She walks out of her room slowly, having just woken up from a mid-afternoon nap, and answers the door, praying whoever is there won't mind her nightclothes.

"Hello?" Hélène says, opening the door partway. "If this is some prank your heads are going to be above my fireplace-"

"Hélène," a small voice squeaks from the doorstep. "May I come in?"

Hélène, without thinking, steps to the side to let Natasha in the house, shutting the door behind them. They stand there awkwardly for a moment before Hélène invites Natasha into the kitchen for some tea; they don't have servants home right now and Hélène has to make the tea herself. Natasha sits on the counter as Hélène rummages for the teabags; they're both ignoring the frantic thrumming in their chests the entire time.

As soon as the tea is made they sip in silence until Natasha pipes up. "Hélène?"

Hélène's heart stops. "Yeah?"

"Are you attracted to women?" Her voice is wobbly and unsteady and she sounds on the verge of tears.

"I am," Hélène says hesitantly. "Why do you ask?"

Natasha avoids the question. "How did you know that you were... you know-"

"I was in elementary school and my heart felt the same way when I saw a boy as when I saw a girl." The answer is simple but Hélène almost feels the need to explain her heart's feelings; the way it jumps and swoons, dances as though it's in a ballet; the way it swings like a porch in the wind; how she wishes Natasha could understand what she's trying to convey.

"Oh," Natasha says, staring straight ahead. "Well, can I be - you know - attracted to women... even if I don't feel that way specifically?"

Hélène shrugs. "Sure. You'll know when you're... when you're..."

"When I'm attracted to women?"

"Yeah. That."

They sip in silence again while Hélène ponders Natasha's inquiries and Natasha gathers the words to try and explain her feelings to Hélène.

"Hélène?"

"Yeah?"

"I think I love you-"

"Oh?" Hélène's heart stops again. This is probably _terrible_ for her health. 

"-but not in a sex way. In a... not-sex way, if that makes sense."

Hélène's scared that if she tries to speak her voice might splinter into a million pieces, but she takes that risk. "I think I love you, too. In a... not-sex way, I suppose."

"I just mean that I don't want to have sex with you, I want to... cuddle you? And hold you and kiss you and love you, but not in a sex way."

"Okay."

"Okay."

They finish their tea and, wordlessly, put the cups in the sink and walk into the drawing room, sitting on the couch side by side. Natasha hovers her hand over Hélène's, as if asking if she can hold it, and Hélène complies, curling her hand around Natasha's on the section of couch between them. Eventually they end up curled around each other on the end of the couch, Hélène's free hand gently carding through Natasha's hair, Natasha's free hand rubbing gentle circles into Hélène's thigh. A candle burns on the floor, smelling of cinnamon and spice, and if Hélène squints she can imagine they're sitting on a forest floor, leaning up against a tree, surrounded by leaves in warm, fall colors.

At some point they fall asleep on each other.

Hélène's dreams are filled with brown sugar skin, glimmering eyes, fascinating smiles, and moons of every planet.

Natasha dreams of hands entwined with each other, shoelaces on leather boots, and dresses that flow like a snake through sand.

Hélène smirks as she realizes how angry Anatole is going to be at her, then smiles when she thinks of the girl curled in front of her. Her heart swells and feels close to bursting, Natasha's as well, and they lay together all day, simply enjoying the other's presence.

\- - -

Hélène receives a letter the next week; a response from Anatole to the letter she sent him after she and Natasha met the day after the failed elopement.

  
_Dear Hélène,_

_What in God's name were you thinking, woman? We explicitly covered that anyone of the same gender was OFF LIMITS and here you are, getting in Natasha Rostova's undergarments. I'm so disappointed in you, honestly. You have the most self-control out of the two of us; or should I say, you USED to. Good God, Hélène, I don't even know what else to say; you can infer for yourself what I'll be saying to you when I see you next._

_Sincerely yours,_

_Anatole_

_P.S. I'm assuming that since any rules we established initially are now void, I have free reign to Dolokhov. He's come to visit me in Petersburg. Pardon me as I head back to bedroom; he's quite needy._

  
Hélène giggles and checks the large clock in her bedroom; thirty minutes until Natasha is supposed to arrive. She blushes and thinks of her girlfriend; soft and introverted compared to Hélène, who's much more loud and extroverted.

She composes a response to Anatole, something along the lines of " _eh, what can I do,_ " and prepares some raspberry tarts in the kitchen. Natasha loves them, the sweetness of the innards compared to the bland, doughy exterior.

Natasha shows up as planned, looking a bit sad compared to her usual spring-in-your-step personality. Hélène tilts her head quizzically. "What's wrong, darling?"

"I can't stand not telling people about you."

Hélène's eyes widen. "Dear, we covered this-"

"Yes, yes, I know: this is our own personal relationship. But I want to be somewhere where I can talk someone's ear off about my perfect-" Natasha leans her head on Hélène's shoulder "-beautiful-" she slowly leads Hélène towards the sleeping quarters "-sexy-" Hélène blushes as they open the door to her bedroom and close it as soon as they are inside "-totally kissable-" Natasha pulls them onto the bed and immediately sits in Hélène's lap "-girlfriend." Natasha stares at Hélène's wide open eyes for a moment before kissing her, softly and slowly. Hélène relaxes quickly and runs a hand through Natasha's hair, gathering a handful of it at the base of her neck and tugging it gently. Natasha gasps and pulls away for a moment, eyes burning with curiosity, before she leans back in, quietly whimpering for Hélène to do it again.

Hélène instead pulls away herself and quietly whispers, "Are you okay with this?"

Natasha nods and ruts her head into the crook between Hélène's neck and shoulder.

"Natasha," Hélène says gently, "c'mon-"

"But I _waaant_ it," Natasha whines, looking at Hélène with puppy dog eyes.

"You said you didn't want sex."

"This isn't sex."

"It's _almost_ sex."

"I don't want to have sex, but this hair-pulling thing is fine."

"Are you sure?"

" _Yes_ , dear," Natasha sighs.

"I just want to make sure you're happy," Hélène says.

Natasha sits quietly for a moment before speaking up. "Can I tell you something?"

"Of course, pumpkin."

Natasha smiles at the nickname before continuing. "I don't like my pronouns."

"You mean she and her?"

"Yeah. They make me uncomfortable for some reason."

Hélène thinks for a moment. "What would you want me to use instead?"

"I don't know yet."

"That's fine."

"Okay."

"Okay."

"Can we cuddle?"

"Of course."

\- - -

It's a year later of meeting in secret when Nat, happiest using neutral pronouns and a fun, shortened version of their name, springs a question on Hélène. "How do you elope?"

Hélène looks up from her book - she's lying beside Nat in the young person's bedroom; everyone else is out - and frowns. "You know what happened last time you tried that."

Nat groans. "I know, I know. But I'm sure this time."

Hélène's heart stops and she sits up. "You want to elope with who?"

Nat looks up at Hélène. "You."

Oh. "Well."

"Yeah."

"I wouldn't be opposed to that, per se," Hélène says, trying to keep her voice calm. "We'd need more then three days of planning, of course, and I'm getting nowhere near that drunkard Balaga."

Nat laughs. "I actually met him for a moment that night of the failed elopement. He was quite a character."

"And you're sure?" Hélène asks, making Nat sit up.

"Absolutely."

"Well then," Hélène says, laughing quietly. "You know, when I first met you, I never thought I'd end up here."

Nat blushes. "I knew all along."

Hélène splutters and blushes, trying to find the words to describe the feeling she's feeling but in the end only comes up with:

"I love you to the moon and back."

Nat is ecstatic.

\- - -

"Well," Hélène breathes, her breath curling in on itself in the winter air, "here we are."

"Yeah," Nat responds. They're curled up together on Hélène's front porch steps waiting for their driver to arrive. Their driver, or perhaps, their drivers, are Anatole and Dolokhov, who revealed to the couple their intention of eloping as well. The four plan to drive to Petersburg, where Anatole and Dolokhov have been staying.

"You know," Nat starts, then pauses and takes a deep breath. "You know I love you, right?"

"Of course."

"And..."

"And?"

A pause. "And you love me back?"

Hélène smiles reassuringly. "I've always loved you back. And I'll never stop, dear."

Nat, even though they've heard it millions of times, beams happily. "I've always loved you back, too."


End file.
